You might fall in love with one of the moments, and follow her through the leafy streets of Jugtown, pausing sometimes to give a coin to a panhandler, or pat a mangy dog, to give yourself plausibility.
She is just a moment, your mother says, scraping a cauterized yolk from the skillet with the edge of the spatula. She won’t last, your father says, looking up from the dictionary, where he’s memorizing synonyms. There are a million like her, says your little sister, standing on tiptoe before the full-length mirror. Your uncle just clears his throat.